


The Name (Is Everything)

by SkipandDi (ladyflowdi)



Series: Moments from the Infiltrate Universe [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Gratuitous Smut, Light BDSM, M/M, Married Couple, Married Life, Married Sex, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 01:07:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4686506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyflowdi/pseuds/SkipandDi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“This is a letter from the Deed Poll,” Sherlock says. His eyes have never been more unreadable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Name (Is Everything)

**Author's Note:**

> One of the loveliest pieces Skip and I wrote. The power of the love between John and Sherlock has always been fascinating to us -- a power even THEY are afraid of, because it means so much. It means everything.

Baker Street, for the first time in _months_ , is miraculously, magnificently quiet.

Adella had been in London for two weeks on business, and while she simply couldn’t lower herself to stay at Baker Street (had, in fact, given them both a withering look at ‘the state’ of their flat), she had taken all the children to Hamleys to spoil them to excess. John doesn’t want to think about what was coming tonight when the children finally got home. Undoubtedly, it would end in blood and tears.

John, in a rather disheartening show of parenting, opts to spend those few, glorious hours making supper and puttering around the kitchen, emptying the dishwasher, scrubbing out the sink, polishing their table. He’s just started the penne boiling, and is considering a new storage place for the dishes, when Sherlock emerges from the basement office. “Got everything finished up for the Monet case?” John asks, turning the pasta on medium and stirring it with a spoon.

Sherlock doesn’t reply, and when John turns to look at him he catches the most charming, flabbergasted look on his face. He holds up the mail, and John immediately groans. “Don’t tell me those bastards charged us for more minutes again. I told them we wanted the family plan and free mobile-to-mobile.”

“No,” Sherlock replies slowly. “Not the phone company.” He sets the mail down on the table and, using one finger, pushes the top letter across to him. 

“Well,” John says, wiping his hands on a dish rag, “there goes that surprise.”

He chances a look at Sherlock, still standing beside the table, still staring at him as if he’s never met him before. He feels suddenly as if he’s utterly out of his depth, that this was a terrible mistake, that he should have discussed this with Sherlock before he went and did it. 

“This is a letter from the Deed Poll,” Sherlock says. His eyes have never been more unreadable.

“Yes,” John answers.

“You changed your name.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Many reasons. I got tired of people not knowing what to call me, and paperwork issues at the school.”

Sherlock blinks. “That’s not all.”

“No, Sherlock.” John gives him a little smile. “You can open it.”

Sherlock stares down at the letter as if he can see right through it. When he makes no move to do so John takes it from him, opens it up, passes his eyes over the contents quickly. It was approved, as he’d known it would be, and it would be six to eight weeks before his new documentation came in, passport, license, medical. But still, it’s there in bolded fourteen-point font. 

John sets the letter down. _John Holmes_ sits on the table between them.

“Are you angry?”

“Angry?” Sherlock blurts, then shifts his weight uncomfortably. “I’m not angry.”

“You’re behaving as if you are.”

“I... no. I can honestly say that I’ve never been so far from angry in my life.”

And it’s true -- this isn’t classic Pissed Off Sherlock, where his eyes got flinty and his mouth pursed. This was something completely different, and, John realizes, bears a striking similarity to the way he’d looked the first time he’d held Andrew. 

“I love you,” Sherlock says very carefully, as if the words were foreign in his mouth, as if he didn’t say it, everyday, to their children, as if he didn’t press the words into John’s skin every night. 

“I love you too,” John replies with a flood of relief, grinning lopsided and happy. 

“You don’t understand me,” Sherlock replies with a sharp frown. “We have four hours until the children return home. You have two choices. Either you turn the pasta off and get in our bed, or we’re going to have sex over this table and your dinner is going to burn. Choose now.”

"Just either-or?" John asks, only half-teasing. His eyes are bright and happy, thrilled with Sherlock's response, happy for no other reason than because _Sherlock_ is. That his pleasure should be so intrinsic to John's own still stuns Sherlock, baffles him, makes him feel like an all-powerful god.

He makes the few steps over in a smooth motion -- almost a dance move, almost a predation -- because he knows John loves it. He stops when they are chest to chest, reaches over and flicks off the stove. "I amend my statement," he announces, kisses John hot and hard, and then with one last nip, drops to his knees.

John is already starting to go hard under his jeans; moreso when Sherlock fondles him with one hand, the other wandering of its own accord, sliding over John's arse and around to his front, up his stomach and over his chest. John's hands are gripping the counter; his eyes, when Sherlock looks up, are staring down at Sherlock with something like wonderment, something like lust, but mostly a brilliant, heady affection, infatuation, _love_. Sherlock moves his hand to flip open John's fly, mouthing at John's cock through his jeans. John groans, but arousal has already stripped Sherlock of his ability to revel smugly in it, and instead he pulls back to slide down John's zipper. 

Having Sherlock between his legs will never not be glorious, not when the man knows, with skill honed by practice, what to do to make John lose his mind. It's utterly ridiculous -- _in the kitchen_ \-- but that somehow makes it funnier, makes him laugh when Sherlock glances up with an arched brow and a smile curling his lips. "You like it then?" he asks, jerking and shivering and _giggling_ when Sherlock traces a fingertip up along his thigh, just because he knows John is ticklish. "I didn't do it for you, you know."

"That's precisely who you did it for," Sherlock replies, thumbing John's cock until it rose, proud and hard and thick. "You are my spouse -- everything you do that makes our lives easier is for me. Paperwork, the clinic... hardly. You would never do something so life-altering for such trivial reasons."

"Oh?" John asks, moaning softly when Sherlock blows a breath lightly over the head of his cock.

"You said 'there goes that surprise'. It's our anniversary next week. Clearly, you meant this to be a gift to me." Sherlock nuzzles softly along the ridge, mouthing delicately at the foreskin. It feels like a tiny piece of heaven, glorious. "Nothing could have been more perfect."

Sherlock grasped his hips with both hands, hardened his fingers until John was immobile. "You are mine. In every sense of the word."

He sucks John down like he's on a time limit, or in a race, but the truth is he's already lost, is too far gone to ever catch up. John groans deep in the back of his throat at the sudden onslaught, and his hips try to twitch forward instinctively. After a few moments of the maddening, addictive up and down, Sherlock pulls back, then off, and John curses at him, though it's underlain with intense amusement at Sherlock's behavior. Sherlock feels like he needs to lick, suck, taste, _feel_ every single part of John, John _Holmes_ , God it sounds fantastic, why didn't _he_ think of it ages ago?

His hand goes around John's cock as Sherlock tilts his head somewhat awkwardly and sucks one of John's balls in his mouth, making John grunt out a startled, "Christ, oh _fuck_." He does it again with the other one, thrilled at the response. He shouldn't be the only one about to lose his fucking mind. After an interminable amount of time spent with John cursing like a true soldier -- each bit out syllable a spark that shoots straight to Sherlock's groin -- he pulls back and nips at John's thigh, his hand still working on John's cock. "I want you inside me, _now_ ," he says into John's skin. 

They don't fuck as often as they’d like. The logistics of it are sometimes beyond them, be they exhausted, or in a rush, or wanting too much to worry about lubricant and stretching and all the rest. That Sherlock is between his legs, touching him, kissing him, looking up at him with mischief written all over his features and that expression of want, is so wonderful that John can't help the sweep of affection, the laughter that builds up in his throat. "Oh, do you now?" he asks, stroking his fingers through Sherlock's curls, tugging at them lightly so Sherlock will look up at him. "Remind me, wasn't it you last time who didn't talk to me for three days?" he asks, innocently and not a little smugly, tracing his thumb down the side of Sherlock's face to where the corner of Sherlock's lip was brushing against the head of his cock, connected with a thin line of precome.

Sherlock's eyes narrow and John grins, unrepentant, sly. He'd eaten Sherlock out for _hours_. It had been wonderful -- dreamy, lost between Sherlock's legs, licking into him, then up his cock, then his sac, so tight and hot and full it sends a shiver up his spine even now to think about it, the weight of all that unspent pleasure in his hand. He'd wanted them fuller and hotter and aching, stretched thin. By the time John had let him come, buried to the quick in Sherlock's tight heat, Sherlock had nearly screamed the house down, had nearly _fainted_ , and had come so hard he'd gotten come on his chest, _in his hair._

Sherlock deliberately ignores the pointed commentary; there's a possibility if he thinks on the occasion too long he'll come in his pants like a pimple-faced teen, and John would _never_ let him live that down. As it is he has to shift himself through his trousers and pants. He has no idea why that particular set of stimuli sends him into veritable paroxysms of pleasure, and can never remain cognizant enough to follow through on any of his experimental designs to test properly. Something about John's mouth, John's tongue, the hot wet slide that could reduce his world to a single place, just one minuscule point, in a way he'd only ever found before through illegal substances. He hadn't spoken for the three following days because he'd been incoherent for so long after he'd come it would have been embarrassing to denote, so he'd gone along with it and put in a good three day sulk for effect. He suspected he hadn't fooled John at all.

"This is supposed to be _my_ gift, now do what I tell you," he argues instead, his lips against John's skin to make him shiver and swat playfully at Sherlock's head. Sherlock licks his lips and finds he can't help but swipe his tongue along the underside of John's prick, head to base and back up again. He doesn't intend to suck John back down but finds himself doing it anyway, lost in the heady weight of it, the smell of John's arousal. He has to make himself pull away after another minute, but his fingertips continue to trip over all of John's skin, his right thumb coming up to press hard against John's hole, just flattened over, not in, but holding surely, firmly. "We have four hours, and in that time, John Hamish Holmes, you _will_ give me what I want." 

"Oh, will I?" John asks, and jumps when Sherlock lightly pinches his thigh, sensitive and tight. It makes his cock throb, the sense memory of all that lovely heat wrapped like a gift around him. Sherlock always winced so beautifully on John's first, slow slide in; John wants to see it, to trace his fingertips over Sherlock's mouth when it inevitably trembles open. His eyes always got so far away, so foggy, so lost in his own pleasure as he fought to open to John's girth. Bottoming out was a thing of beauty, inevitably made the tendons in Sherlock's neck stand out when he arched back.

" _Yes_ ," he says, grabs Sherlock under his arms and hoists him up, licking Sherlock's lips open to kiss him, to chase the taste of his own precome from the corners and dips and crevices. His cock brushes along Sherlock's trousers, obscene and sensitive, and he jumps, laughs into Sherlock's mouth, and strokes his fingers over Sherlock's shoulders and under his suit jacket, leaving it in a puddle on the kitchen floor.

They've been together too long. They know each other now, the ways their bodies moved, and how to compensate for John's bad leg, for Sherlock's frankly ridiculous height. He tugs Sherlock down to his mouth, nips his lower lip, and with deft hands unbuckles Sherlock's belt. "Get out of this. Why are you so dressed?" He pulls back enough to pull the belt free with a swish of fabric and leather, then drops to his knees and mouths, wet and damp, across the hard line of Sherlock's cock through his trousers.

Sherlock groans, deep in the back of his throat, the sound like he's been punched in the chest, the feeling much the same. "An - egregious error on my part," he mutters out eventually. John huffs a laugh, the feeling rippling through Sherlock's cock, shaking him like the tremors of an earthquake. He wants John, all of John, all his attention, all his focus, the hot breach of his cock sliding inside, the relentless first push that makes Sherlock's eyes roll up in his head, makes his breath whistle out between his teeth.

Sherlock _owns_ John, as much as John owns him, and right now the thought has never been more potent. He could do anything, he'd let _John_ do anything, anything at all. He feels intoxicated, giddy.

He shoves his trousers and pants down as far as he can and from there John takes over, nipping and sucking and teasing, always such a fucking _tease_. The grey streaks in his hair flicker under the kitchen lights as Sherlock grabs them in big handfuls. John's fingers slide under his sac, tug just the way Sherlock both loves and hates -- without fail it makes him shudder, makes his cock go rigid.

He lets go of John with one hand and clumsily snags the economy size bottle of cooking oil on the counter, but pauses, considering. 

John glances up and bursts into laughter around Sherlock's cock -- it wasn't the first time, and would not be the last. He licks up his own saliva, drags his hand across his chin and then tight, around the base of Sherlock's cock. "Cooking oil? Really, love?"

Sherlock glares -- if it wasn't such a ridiculous sight over his bobbing cock John _might_ have taken him seriously. "I'm not fucking my doctor."

"You're _always_ fucking your doctor," John replies smartly, and stands, nipping the cooking oil away. "I'm not having you in the kitchen, anyhow. We have four hours, Sherlock. Don't you know what that means?"

John gives him a nudge back with his fingers, then another, then _another_ , until Sherlock is stumbling backwards through the hallway to their bedroom. His eyes have gone all pupil, and his mouth is already open, gasping for air. It's bloody _beautiful_. "I want you naked, on your back, and lubed by the time I return from the loo. I want your hips propped up on a pillow and your thighs spread prettily, so I have a nice view when I come in."

"And if I don't follow your directions?" Sherlock asks, a beautiful flush reddening the apples of his cheeks.

John's eyes narrow. "Then I'm going to have a wank and you won't, and you're going to crawl back downstairs, painfully aroused and terribly unsatisfied. That isn't something either of us wants, so mind me. You have three minutes."

John gives Sherlock one more sharp push, sending Sherlock just far enough to stumble against the edge of their bed and go tumbling down across it. John smirks, leans down and breathes over the head of Sherlock's cock, but doesn't take it, doesn't so much as touch it. "You're beautiful," he says, looking up at Sherlock. "Fucking gorgeous."

" _Stop wasting my fucking time_ ," Sherlock snaps.

John grins, stands up straight, and waltzes right out of the room with the words, "Two and a half minutes, now," trailing behind him. Sherlock considers whipping a pillow at his head as he goes.

He blows out a breath and twists, reaching up and over to grab the lube from the bedside drawer. He considers exactly how much room he has to play with, how far he can push John; this version is one of his favorites, but he's far less lenient than most of the rest. This John expects orders to be followed; this John met Sherlock wearing a blue Caraceni and barking commands to knock-kneed CIA agents. This John _would_ leave Sherlock hard as a rock, and then Sherlock would have to retaliate, and there's no sense in reenacting that one March weekend in 2014. Explaining the bite marks was difficult enough the first time around.

Sherlock lays flat on the bed and starts to open himself up brutally; he's half-annoyed but more aroused, terribly so, could come from this alone, his fingers and the thought of John, amused and entertained and thoroughly exasperated. He's hurries up, until he's got three fingers crooked inside, his eyes shut, his restless tongue caught between his teeth.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he hears from the vicinity of the doorway.

Sherlock doesn't open his eyes, and because he's incapable of not pushing, says, "You were taking too long; I got bored." 

John gives Sherlock a look he'd perfected on twitchy new lieutenants and errant DI's who thought they could tell him what to do. Irritation, a touch of anger, and his blood goes hot, his cock surging hard and heavy between his legs with primal satisfaction. It wouldn't be good if Sherlock listened, or did what he was fucking told.

He drops his clothing into the hamper by their door and stands there, perfectly naked, perfectly hard. "You only get three strikes," he says, casually. "That was the first. For your sake, I suggest you do as I say, or you're really, really going to regret it."

Sherlock deigns to look at him then, eyes narrowed with pleasure and annoyance. Before he has a chance to open his mouth John adds, casually, "I wouldn't, if I were you. Now be a lad and show me what I want to see."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him. "If all you're going to do is look then you can wait," he says, but nonetheless he retracts his fingers, even if his movements are mutinously, provocatively slow.

John gives him the sharpest look yet, and it seems to run straight to Sherlock's groin, his cock rigid and leaking. "That's two," he says. "Stop pushing your luck."

Sherlock spreads his legs wide and grabs his cock with his right hand, feeling absurd, and entertained, and hopelessly turned on, John's scarred body just as much on display as his own. "That's perfect positioning on your part, by the way, thank you."

 _Oh_ but it's a sight, makes something in John's belly go to water, makes his balls ache anew and his cock twitch. He gives it a slow, soothing stroke, and looks his fill. Sherlock's long legs, wintery-pale, are spread open, feet flat on the bed and hips arched on the throw pillow they kept for this very purpose. His cock is lying, hard and rigid, on his belly, slick on the long, flat plane of it. His sac hangs below, beautiful, dusky pink, and beneath it, smeared wet, is the clutch of his hole.

It’s a struggle, but John licks his lower lip, arches a brow. "I like it when you behave," he says, climbing on top of the bed without touching Sherlock yet. It's terrible, this endless tease, but _oh_ how John likes this game, likes the way Sherlock struggles against his own nature. "On display for me, so I can see everything I'm about to have. So long and beautiful."

He runs his hands up Sherlock's legs, opens them just that much more until Sherlock jumps, thighs straining under John's hands. "Look at you," he whispers, and licks over Sherlock's fingers wrapped around his own cock, kissing the head gently. "I'm going to fuck you until you cry," he murmurs gently, kissing down the hollow of Sherlock's groin, kissing his sac, too, then down further to press a kiss to that slick little hole, wet and stretched open. "I'm going to put my cock right here," he adds, thumbing softly at the rim to watch it tighten and go slack, then tighten again. "I'm going to push right into you, bottom out, until you swallow and feel my cock in your throat."

John looks implacable, undeniable. For all his shorter, slighter stature he carries himself like a giant. Sherlock has never wanted to follow anyone's orders, but John can occasionally make Sherlock forget that. He swallows thickly, his hand sliding down his cock to grab at the base, to force himself back a bit. "Talk, talk, talk," he says, the complaint in his voice a lie, a blatant _lie._

John's thumb shoves in brutally at that, and Sherlock groans, his hips swerving instinctively, seeking more. "So desperate," John murmurs, leaning over to bite at one of Sherlock's nipples. "Wet and open, all for me."

"So you've finally noticed?" Sherlock groans out. He reaches his free hand out and down until he finds John's cock, thumb sliding over the head. "Does this mean you're done teasing, or--" He bites off a broken sound as John does something particularly ingenious with his tongue on Sherlock's other nipple, "--or, do I need to go get my needs met elsewhere?" It's a dangerous game to play, one he couldn't have played five years ago, but here, now, dangerous and not deadly is where it ends, and he can manage that just fine. 

The sound that John makes, low in his throat, is closer to a growl than he would ever admit. His brain knows Sherlock is playing his game, but his cock is a whole other story. He sets his teeth to Sherlock's nipple to hear him make that high sound again, needful and desperate, and tries to reign in the lust and sheer _delight_ in his husband’s response.

He pulls his thumb free, runs it around the clenching rim of Sherlock's hole just to feel Sherlock jolt and tremble, and then grabs his hip and pushes him over onto his belly. Sherlock scrambles to situate himself, the muscles in his back flowing and rippling with tension, and John shoves the pillow under his hips, tucks Sherlock's cock underneath it so he won't be able to thrust. "No coming, until I say," he says, and expects to be obeyed. "Now squeeze your legs together and give me somewhere to thrust. You don't get my cock yet, not until you've earned it."

Before Sherlock can ask how, exactly, he can earn it John slides his cock down into the tight, hot channel Sherlock's made by squeezing his thighs together. It has the added effect of plumping up that beautiful arse of his, muscles working to keep his legs tightly together as John thrusts forward. The head of his cock catches behind Sherlock's balls, the base of his cock, not nearly enough stimulation but all he was going to get.

Sherlock says, "What can I--" and John presses two fingers into his mouth to keep him occupied. "Your mouth is only good for one thing," he murmurs, low in Sherlock's ear. " _Suck_."

The solid, wide pad of John's fingers in his mouth are intoxicating, tinged with his precome, with Sherlock's own. He sucks messily, roughly. Just to make his point he presses his teeth down hard enough for John to feel it, not enough to hurt. It makes John swat him on the arse with his free hand, and Sherlock groans.

John thrusts behind him, skimming Sherlock's arsehole, his sac. It's tortuously good, not nearly enough, and the fact that John knows this is the most addictive part of all, that he knows and _doesn't care_ , that his husband, business partner, doctor, father of his children and one and only friend is, for a few minutes, thinking of himself. Sherlock is selfish enough for any ten people and will always be able to hold his own; he loves the rare instances where John does the same. John's brand of selfishness somehow seems to work out in Sherlock's favor anyway.

He manages to get his arms under him, starts to thrust back, and waits to see what John will do next. 

It's good -- it's _so good_ , John could easily come from this, from the high he's getting on bending Sherlock to his whim. It's gorgeous, _glorious_ , that long, lovely back curved inward, those hips working back against John's for friction, any kind of friction. His arse, beautiful and purt and rounded and perfect for his hands, bobs up and down, working to get sensation. John groans low in his throat, reaches under to hold Sherlock's hip, support it as he moves Sherlock's slow, twisting thrusts back against him. "Like that?"

"Yes," Sherlock says, head falling forward. His curls scatter and bare his long, beautiful neck. 

John leans down, sets his teeth to it. "Tell me."

"I like it," Sherlock mumbles, tossing his head side to side against John's teeth.

"I like it too," John whispers, dragging his fingers through Sherlock's hair to tug his head back. "Tighten up your legs. Make it good for me."

Sherlock groans, guttural, but he does as John asks. His legs are trembling, his fingers are knotting into the sheets, and his legs are tangled tightly with John's, encouraging his thrusts. It's one of the most beautiful things John's seen, on the long list of beautiful things Sherlock does with his body to bring John to his knees.

It's times like these that John's imagination runs away from him. It scares him, how far he wants to take Sherlock, how deep he wants to go. He could make Sherlock cry, could make that beautiful body of his sing for him. One day, he thinks he might get the courage to want those things, let alone ask for them.

He pulls his cock free from Sherlock's thighs and tugs him over, onto his back. Sherlock is sweaty, flushed, cheeks pink and lips red. John licks them open, kisses him lovely and warm and deep until his stomach is fluttering and his joints are trembling and he desperately, desperately wants to clamber completely into Sherlock's skin. He settles instead for lube, for reaching underneath and sliding one finger in, without warning, to the second knuckle. "You were made to be fucked," he says, because it makes Sherlock jerk, makes his toes curl where they're over John's shoulder. "Look at you. Do you even know the image you make, laid out for me here in our bed? I wish you could see yourself, Sherlock -- no one would mistake you for the world's only consulting detective like this." He punctuates his words with a firm circle on Sherlock's prostate. 

"Then it's a good thing no one else will ever see it," Sherlock answers, his voice gone so deep the words are almost garbled, mangled beyond recognition. John _grunts_ in agreement, actually grunts like some brain-dead neanderthal, with a wild look in his eyes that suggests Sherlock may have bitten off more than he can chew by being really quite reckless with John's possessive streak. He's not afraid to find out though, is actually looking forward to it, curling inwards as John withdraws his one finger and returns with two, pressing them relentlessly into Sherlock's opening.

John's hair is twisted in whorls around his head, spiky tufts in the back from Sherlock's sticky fingers, his eyes bright and strangely green in the bedroom light, the afternoon sun filtering through the shades. He doesn't look real, he looks like John as rendered by, an idealized portrayal that couldn't actually exist. His scarred shoulder hides and reappears under Sherlock's leg as he moves; if Sherlock could explain it he'd pull the leg down, drag John closer so Sherlock could put his lips to it, his tongue, his John, a survivor, a fighter, and just looking at it long enough could make him hard. But John's incessant, firm presses against Sherlock's prostate, the drag of the tips of his fingers along the rim of Sherlock's hole, the wet-hot exposure as he spreads them wide -- it's all designed to reduce Sherlock to this, to the whimpering mess he's become.

"God, John, _please_ ," he moans, because this has gotten easier too, with time, the words tumbling from his mouth without regret. He has enough evidence now that John won't treat him differently for it, except in the ways Sherlock wants him to. "Stop teasing -- I can't, just -- get in me, _fuck_."

John wants to please him, to make Sherlock utter those sounds he would never admit to. It's usually so hard to get Sherlock to this place, but he sees the signs now, the way he keeps focusing on John's mouth, his shoulder, his cock, eyes blurry and blind with need. It makes John feel strong, and wanted, and _sexy_ \-- it makes him want to gather Sherlock up and touch him and kiss him until he shudders and goes pliant in his arms. It makes him want to bury himself between Sherlock's legs, so deep he can never get free. 

He's simply beautiful. He always has been, ever since John met him, but he's somehow become _more_ in the intervening years. He's John's best friend; he's the love of his life. When they come together like this, when they aren't rushed for time, when they can peel the everyday from each other, they're left with this -- John, and Sherlock, two necessary parts to one singular whole.

Heat rushes through him, makes his cock jerk and throb against Sherlock's thigh, painting a wet streak. "I love you so much," he gasps, licking a line through the sweat on Sherlock's throat and impatiently reaching for the lube again. "Hold on."

"John," Sherlock moans, eyes clenching shut and thighs shuddering in an aborted thrust.

"Hold on," John says again, pulling his fingers free from Sherlock's arse -- wet and open and waiting. He groans at the sight and strokes a hand down his cock, uncoordinated and shaking, getting himself wet and slick. "I'm coming, love."

" _John_."

"Shh, I'm here." He hoists Sherlock's leg up higher onto his shoulder, pulls him in close to the cradle of his hips. "Like this."

Sherlock moans, and John knows it'll be hell on their joints, but to begin with it's perfect -- deep on the first go, the way Sherlock likes best. He takes hold of himself and nudges into Sherlock, just a bit, just enough so he can run a finger gently around the rim of Sherlock's hole and slip the tense muscle snug around the crown of his cock. Sherlock jerks, trembling, and John arches his hips back and pushes in with one deep, solid push, all the way to the quick, until his sac is against Sherlock's skin and their thighs are pressed together and Sherlock is keening and wild beneath him.

Sherlock thrusts his hips up as far as he can go, shuddering as John's cock breaches him, wide and heavy and so hot, John's sac pressed against his arse. His fingers scrabble against the bedclothes and his thighs clench, his breaths are shallow and gasping. He loves this, loves it, being pressed down, pushed open, feeling sparks light up his back and across his hips, all of it leading straight to his prick.

He forces his eyes open, needing to see John, to watch as he groans and bites his bottom lip, so red, as he stares at Sherlock like a man starving. He pulls back and starts to thrust in earnest, pushing Sherlock up the bed, rocking the headboard against the wall.

"Fuck, yes, John." Sherlock drops his leg down from John's shoulder and pulls the other one up, sets his knees on either side of John's waist. He doesn't grab his own cock, not yet, it's already too much and he's not sure how long he'd hold on.

"Harder, come on." He wants to feel this tomorrow; he wants to feel this next _week_. He tells John this and watches the words jolt through him; Sherlock's filter has short-circuited and the words tumble out and he doesn't care in the slightest. "I want you to fuck me later, when I'm still open and sore and it burns, oh God, yes, just like that, come on."

John moans, low, bites his lower lip and grinds forward and deep and _in_. Sherlock is spread underneath him like a gift, curls stuck to his temples, his face slack with pleasure, and utterly bloody _gorgeous_. Who knew, all those years ago, that the hard, cold, calculating man he'd first met could be reduced to this, a writhing mess of need? The knowledge of the fact still surprises him, still drives him wild -- that he, the most regular sort of bloke, can tear Sherlock down to the common denominator, can make Sherlock cry out with his hands, scream with his mouth. That just by pressing him open and telling him what to do John gets to see Sherlock, beautiful, wild, uninhibited and unrestrained, mouth bitten red and eyes filmy with tears.

"You like this love?" he gasps, slowing to suck at Sherlock's left nipple, the more sensitive of the two. He reaches down to stroke his fingers along Sherlock's cock, under to his sac, full and hot, then lower still to where Sherlock is stretched, obscene, around John's cock. "Feels good?"

He doesn't wait for Sherlock to gather his wits enough to answer him, shifting his weight to his weak arm for a moment to get himself comfortable. He loses his rhythm by doing so, and finally pulls out of Sherlock for a moment; Sherlock makes a low sound of loss and John immediately presses three fingers in to give Sherlock something to squeeze around, to fill the sopping wet hole he's stretched wide open. "Over on your belly. Don't you dare come."

The pause in their lovemaking gives Sherlock time to catch his breath, which is good, and to make a smart remark, which is less so. "The point of sex is orgasm, is it not?" he asks -- _pants_ \-- shifting one leg up over John's head to roll over onto his stomach and propping his hips up on the pillow.

John spreads his cheeks wide, laughs when Sherlock looks over his shoulder like a bloody _Lolita_ , coy smirk curling his mouth. "Well yeah," he says, and drives forward again. From this angle it's a deeper thrust, and he strikes immediately against Sherlock's prostate -- he doesn't even have to guess, Sherlock clamps down on John's prick and drops his head forward, burying his cry into the sheets. John arches back, until just the crown of his cock is inside, then thrusts forward, and the cry hitches up in volume and pitch. "You're fucking beautiful Sherlock, Jesus Christ," John gasps, stroking his hands down that long, glorious back, to that tight little arse. 

Sherlock grunts, too distracted to try and force out some coherent answer, the words _'you're a ridiculous sentimentalist and almost unbelievably myopic at times and yes, right there, hit it just a bit harder if you please'_ a little beyond him. The momentary pause only served to make everything more intense, more immediate. John is relentless, hitting Sherlock's prostate sharp and hard, just the way Sherlock wants it. There's something to be said for familiarity bred from experience.

John's hands are jumping sporadically across Sherlock's body, gripping and releasing, scratching and soothing, hot and cold all at the same time; he says filthy things, his mouth pressing the words into Sherlock's skin. Sherlock enjoys distraction, abhors boredom, and the physical chaos John incites is wonderfully satisfying, occupies Sherlock's senses until there's nothing else, no _room_ for anything else. Why he thinks Sherlock is the extraordinary one in this pairing Sherlock has no idea -- if Sherlock was easy to be around John wouldn't be currently fulfilling every social role in Sherlock's life all by his lonesome. And now, of his own volition, John's taken Sherlock's _name_ , left no room for misunderstanding, no doubt he _belongs_ to Sherlock, with him, a part of him--

Sherlock surges up to kneel on the bed, pushing John back, who, surprised, grabs Sherlock by the hips and follows suit. "I can't -- I'll come," Sherlock gasps, lifting himself up and falling back down on John's cock almost frantically. His left hand goes up and across John's chest to grip the back of John's head in a fist, and Sherlock's own head tilts back against John's good shoulder as he gasps, open-mouthed and wet. 

He strains so beautifully. John has never seen anything more incredible than Sherlock, _Sherlock_ , bucking and twisting and sweating, thrusting back against him even as he tries not to come. It's one of the most achingly beautiful thing Sherlock has done, in a long, long line of beautiful things. John moans, voice ruined, and buries his face against Sherlock's neck. They're moving in tandem now, one perfect unit, and John struggles to keep his eyes open, to watch the setting sun light Sherlock's skin afire, to watch the sweat as it pours down his chest, to watch his mouth tremble open, lips wet and red. John wraps his arms tightly around Sherlock's chest and hugs him close, lets the bed move them with each aching thrust.

Sherlock is jerking moaning _sobbing_ , cock so hard it's almost purple, glistening wet at the crown and bobbing with each thrust. "Yes," he says into the skin behind Sherlock's ear, biting at the tendon and sucking hard. "You ridiculous thing, come on."

Sherlock tosses his head, eyes clenched shut, and John licks up his cheek, catches the salt on his tongue as he struggles to stop from coming. It's good, it's as good as it's ever been; he fights to keep from coming, pleasure jolting through his body in waves that are getting stronger, deeper. He thrusts harder, faster, and when he can't keep himself from the precipice anymore, drops his hand down between Sherlock's legs. His grip on Sherlock's cock isn't enough, John makes sure it's just a hair not enough, and he moans out of a ruined throat when Sherlock loses it, bucking back into John's thrusts and then forward into his fist, fucking himself with a frustrated cry.

He's beautiful, in his agony. John relents, catches Sherlock's chin and turns his face back for a brutal kiss. He tightens his grip, strokes just the way Sherlock likes, and watches his husband fall to pieces.

Sherlock's entire body clenches as he shoots hard enough to hit the sheets, the pillow, the bloody fucking _headboard_. He can barely hear himself over the rushing sound in his ears but he knows he's being spectacularly loud, and he really doesn't care. His hand is fisted so tight in John's hair it has to hurt but he can't so much as loosen his grip, too overwhelmed by the flash bomb detonating behind his eyes.

John is so _ruthless_ in bed, matches Sherlock's unyielding passion out of it, forces Sherlock where John wants him until he's dragged Sherlock half out of his mind with pleasure. It's only gotten better over the years, the freedom from uncertainty drizzling away until all that's left is this, the firm, knowledgeable exploitation of all their experience together. Sherlock is both anticipating and dreading the day John decides to take what he really wants, _everything_ he really wants, because he could break Sherlock apart and leave him scattered in pieces on the mattress, the table, the floor.

Perhaps they can send the kids to Mycroft's for the weekend.

John is groaning, deep in the back of his throat like he's been punched right in his chest, his mouth pressed against the base of Sherlock's throat. He's still thrusting, thank God he's still thrusting, and Sherlock clenches down as tightly as he can, determined to drag John with him. 

John is utterly, utterly overcome by that beautiful face, twisted into a mew of agony and ecstasy. He moans like he's dying, first when the rapid-fire pulses of Sherlock's orgasm milk John's cock, then when Sherlock bears down, squeezing him tightly.

He lets go.

Orgasm is glorious, pleasure lighting him up from the inside -- he throws his head back, silent and heaving and intense, in and in and in. Sherlock's cry is beautiful, perfect, and John bucks his hips and buries his face back into Sherlock's neck. His body jerks, and he thrusts deeper without meaning to, over and over again until his balls ache and he feels like he's never going to get free.

He's breathing so hard he's panting, the both of them covered in sweat, and when John pulls his hips back and pulls free Sherlock collapses forward onto his front, back heaving with every breath.

"Fuck," John gasps, and follows him down. "Oh, fuck me."

"You'll have to give me a minute first." Sherlock mumbles into the pillow, his face perilously close to the streak of his own come spattered on it. "I'm not thirty-two anymore." His heart is starting to slow down from its breakneck pace, his breathing evening out.

John giggles breathlessly next to him, the same laugh he had almost twenty years ago. "You do pretty well for an old man."

Sherlock huffs into the pillow and turns to face John, who is crashed on his good side, smiling loosely in Sherlock's direction. His expression is half smug, half silly, entirely besotted, and completely ridiculous. It would be endearing, if he hadn't just called Sherlock old. Sherlock is _not_ old. "You're almost entirely grey."

John's fingers skim the side of Sherlock's face, light and pointless, like he doesn't even realize he's doing it. "Blessing of blonde hair -- no one can tell. Besides, that's not age, that's you and the heathens."

As if summoned by his words there's a loud slam from the downstairs door. Sherlock groans. "Forty plus years and the damn woman's still timing her visits so she can barge in post-coitus." 

John's up and halfway to the loo before he realizes Sherlock is laughing. It's Mrs. Hudson, of course it is, same time every night taking her rubbish bag to the skip alongside the flat. He turns and _glowers_ , and Sherlock chokes out, between hitching laughter, "No, John, _no_ \--" and John tackles him, tickling for all he's worth.

They’re at it again, later in the shower. Wet, giggling like schoolboys, they kiss and lick at each other, necking until the water goes cold and the pipes are clicking

He has Sherlock again, in their bed -- slower than the last time, mindful of how swollen and sore and tender he is. Sherlock's face twists at the burn but John doesn't stop, not when he knows how good it is for the both of them, not when Sherlock fists his fingers in his hair and drags him down for a kiss. He wriggles down the bed and coaxes Sherlock's cock back to life, no matter how loud Sherlock moans in protest, sucking until he's hot and hard and rigid in John's hand, until he spills wet.

They're barely out of the shower for the second time and dressed when he hears the key in the lock downstairs, and the children's voices. He's barely stopped kissing Sherlock and the kids are bursting through the door, talking and laughing, baby Arthur screaming with glee in Adella’s arms and hugging a bear the size of his entire body.

Adella takes one look at them and smiles like the bloody _grinch_ , lips curled up with amusement.


End file.
